


Sample

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Leashes, Light Bondage, M/M, Master/Pet, Puppy Play, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reed enjoys submitting to his superior officers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sample

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was originally posted as part of the Naughty Drabble series, but I split it up as it only ever accumulated two parts. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Captain Archer’s quarters are pleasantly warm—too warm, in fact, for Malcolm’s liking. It’s surprisingly comfortable, being naked, sitting on the hard floor, with his arms strapped behind his back, bound wrist-to-elbow. The bindings aren’t tight enough, and the combination isn’t complex enough—if Malcolm really wanted, he could probably escape. And when he submits himself to a man, he doesn’t want to feel that way: he wants to feel _owned_ and _beaten_ , so thoroughly crushed that there’s no hope for life beyond his master’s whims. Captain Archer is too kind a man, and he even insists, “You remember your safeword?” As though Malcolm would ever use it. 

Malcolm _craves_ this, the worst kind, the brutal, harsh power system that crushes him down beneath a superior’s boots. He doesn’t want to think he has a way out. He doesn’t want to think his opinion matters. He wants it militant and clear-cut and rigid, but he also wants to be here, and he knows Archer won’t have him if he doesn’t behave. 

So he mumbles, “Yes, Sir,” with his eyes down. He’s staring at Archer’s knees, hooked over the bed, down to sweats: all after hours, of course. Archer rewards him with a strong hand through his hair. He’s pet like a dog, but he knows that’s what Archer wants. A pet. Archer’s other hand is wrapping the collar around Malcolm’s throat, and Malcolm has to wonder, not for the first time, if this is a Porthos hand-me-down or something saved and special—proof of their captain’s darker side. 

Archer finally loops the end through the clasp and fastens it on. He sticks two fingers underneath it, digging against Malcolm’s throat, and Malcolm’s adam’s apple suspends with his held breath. It’s too loose. He wants it too tight to breathe. But Archer nods like it’s perfect, pets under his chin and smiles, ordering, “That’s the only thing you’re allowed to say until the game is over.” The grin increases, and he adds, “Except for ‘woof,’ of course.”

Malcolm wrinkles his nose. He likes to submit, yes, but he’s _not_ a dog, and he probably won’t say that. He won’t humiliate himself unless it’s clear that his master enjoys wringing embarrassment out of him. Archer reaches over to the nightstand, gets a hold of the bundled faux-leather, and comes back to Malcolm’s face. 

He clips the end of the leash to Malcolm’s collar: the costume’s complete. When Archer pulls the leash up, Malcolm cranes his neck back obediently, body straining and muscles pulling taut. When Archer pulls the leash forward, Malcolm stumbles into Archer’s knees, face and shoulders tumbling across Archer’s lap. Archer pets his hair and chuckles, purring, “Good boy... you make an attractive dog, Lieutenant.” The shiver runs straight down Malcolm’s front to pool at his crotch; pleasing superior officers is what he was made for. 

Archer’s easy to please, but that doesn’t make Malcolm try any less. He turns his cheek against Archer’s thigh and watches Archer’s large hands retract to his trousers, pushing at the waistband. He can already smell Archer’s crotch and the thick stench of his arousal, and Malcolm licks his lips while he waits, staring forward. Archer’s right palm is clenched around the leash’s end, wrapped around his hand, but his fingertips still help his left hand pulls his cock out of his trousers. It’s a long, thick, glorious thing, especially so up close like this, and Malcolm surges forward instantly, trying to press his mouth into the side. 

Archer chuckles, “Easy, boy,” and pushes him back by the hair. Malcolm bites back a half-whine, half-growl, but Archer just shoves him off. Archer wraps his own fist around his cock and gives it one hard, dry pump, the other jerking on Malcolm’s leash in a warning. The reprimand is instant, and Malcolm’s posture snaps back to attention: he’ll behave. He hasn’t earned his master’s cock yet. “Lick my boots.” Malcolm looks up in surprise, but Archer’s face is stern: a proper captain’s.

So Malcolm slinks to the floor like a good lieutenant. It’s difficult to maneuver without the use of his arms, but he bends as far as he can, until his nose hits the top of Archer’s left boot. It makes his back ache, but he doesn’t care. Phlox will fix it. Malcolm opens his mouth and pokes out his tongue, laving flat along the top of Archer’s black shoe. It’s got a dull matt finish, but Malcolm has every intention of making it, and the other one, shine. He doesn’t care that it tastes bland and off. There’s something about this act in particular—kissing a superior’s boots—that’s always gone straight to Malcolm’s cock. 

Archer obviously likes it too. He must be stroking his cock, because he moans at odd intervals, makes appreciative sounds and spreads his legs more. Malcolm is dutiful and keeps at his task no matter how enticing the noises are or how much his body hurts. He relishes the pain. He makes Archer’s left boot glisten and switches to the right one, laving over the toes right away. Porthos probably doesn’t stay at it this long, but Malcolm doesn’t care. He licks Archer’s boots over and over again until Archer makes a growling noise and tugs his leash so hard that Malcolm nearly chokes.

It’s hard to straighten out, but he manages, tugged closer again, his neck jerked right between Archer’s legs. His chest heaves against the edge of the mattress, and he’s suddenly face-to-face with the bulbous head of Archer’s cock, now slick with what looks like spit and sweat and a little bit of precum. Archer’s still pumping furiously. Malcolm doesn’t need to be told what to do. 

He opens his mouth and leans over the tip of Archer’s cock, just in time to catch the release. It spurts out along his face, and Malcolm eagerly drinks from it, tongue automatically lapping around the underside as his lips smear into the bursting river and take in what they can. Archer groans above him, hips pressing forward, and moans, “I always thought you had a pretty mouth, Reed.”

Malcolm would say thank you, but dogs don’t talk. Instead, he drinks down all of Archer’s cum, swallows, and licks all the remnants away. His own cock is hard against his thigh, even without being touched: serving powerful men always does that to him. He’s barely finished licking Archer clean before Archer’s hands are on him again, petting his face and skull and shoulders like an animal. Malcolm’s growing to like these touches more than he probably should. 

Eventually, he’s pushed back again, and the leash tugs him far enough away for Archer to stand off the bed. Archer reaches down over him, strokes along his spine and keys open the metallic bindings holding his wrists and elbows together, and Malcolm stays still with his arms behind himself like a good boy, until Archer swats them back around to the front and pushes him down to all fours. Archer chirps, “Alright, time to take you for a walk.” Judging by the fact that his dick’s still hanging out of his trousers, Malcolm assumes they’ll be staying in the captain’s quarters. 

But that’s right where he likes to be, and he lets his captain drag him on all fours around the room, knowing that this night’s just beginning, and, for all of Captain Archer’s kindness, Archer can give Malcolm exactly what he needs.


End file.
